Franky’s eyes open to muted sunlight glowing through the thin ceiling of a tent. The soft light makes him blink rapidly as he wipes away the crust from his eyes.

He yawns and then grimaces, trying to remember when he’d even gone to sleep. All he remembers was that he’d descended into the dungeon and–

“Atlantis!” he screams and sits bolt upright as his memories click together. The sheets slide off his chest while a full-body groan escapes his lips alongside painfully tensing muscles.

“Franky!” he hears his name called. Jessa opens the tent flaps and rushes inside.

“Jessa, what happe–” he doesn't finish as she knocks him back down with a hug. Her arms wrap around his chest, which sends his muscles spasming in pain again, but Franky grits his teeth and keeps from screaming.

“You’re okay! I was so worried!” she cries, her face buried against his chest

He reaches down to wrap his arms around her and frowns. He pats her back with his right hand, but he can’t seem to find his left. He looks down at the stump.

“My arm…” he whispers as he stares at the stump. Jessa sniffs and looks up to his face, her arms still wrapped securely around him.

“It’s gone.” she confirms. “No one saw you lose it, and no one knows where it went. I’m sorry.”

“My skill,” Franky realizes. “Did it take–It must have.” He raises his right hand and rubs his forehead to hold back the growing headache. “Damn. What happened, Jessa?”

“You don't remember?” she frowns.

Franky shakes his head. “All I remember is activating my skill and then everything going black.”

She sighs, then slowly grins. “I think it's best to show you, c’mon,” she helps him up and supports his weight as he struggles to stand as every muscle protests. He looks blankly down at Jessa. “Have you gotten shorter?” he asks, noting that her face used to be level with his mouth, but now it’s at his chest.

She giggles, flashing her pearly whites. “Make a mirror,” she tells him.

He raises an eyebrow but complies.

“[Lightform: Pavise]”

A meter away, a glowing shield of energy shimmers into existence. He looks at his reflection in the shield and blinks. His jaw drops.

Before coming to Orbis, Franky had kept himself in good shape. He had a good mix of strength and cardio training that gave him a lean build, and after arriving on Orbis, that build had pretty much remained constant. The man in the reflection though has full, defined muscles bulging beneath the skin, rippling with every movement. Franky raises his right arm and flexes. Veins and painful soreness sprout from his arm.

“You’ve grown a lot,” Jessah giggles as her hand squeezes one of his butt cheeks. Then she glances at his hips covered by tight underpants, “in more ways than one.”

He ignores her inappropriate comment to keep examining his new body. He looks… Well, it’ll be something to get used to, but this is fine, for now.

With a flick of his hand, the shield disintegrates. He lets out a shaky breath. He’d been prepared to die when he activated his skill. A lost arm and a changed body is a small price to pay compared to death.

“You said you wanted to show me something?”

Jessa perks up and quickly wipes the drool on her mouth. “Right. Yes, it's outside.”

He allows her to pull him outside the tent. Sunlight shines down from above as he passes the flaps. He blinks rapidly before glancing outside. Hundreds of tents surround his own and between them, an army’s worth of people with wolf ears and a fluffy tail wander about. They all notice him as he exits the tent, and most step back in what he can only discern as fear.

“They’re afraid of me,” he murmurs.

“They should be,” Jessa declares and points up and into the distance. “After all, you did cause that.”

Franky’s eyes follow her finger and simply stares for a moment before the gravity of the situation sinks in.

Mountains; beautiful, sky touching peaks of ice and stone reaching for the heavens. Franky spent some time traveling through the mountain range beyond the town of Lieking, following the path to Atlantis, so for a moment he believes they’ve just left the port. But no, some of the scenery is familiar, most of it is in fact. And yet, in the distance, in defiance of what Franky knows should be, a canyon has been carved through the reaches.

For dozens of miles, stretching beyond Franky’s field of vision, mountains have been ripped up and shattered, knocked aside like sandcastles kicked over on a beach. The hole in the horizon robs him of his breath.

Ah, he thinks to himself detachedly. That is what they fear. The might of petty gods in the hands of a man. In my hands.

And so, Franky stays a moment longer, looking at the consequences of his actions, at the other cost of his sacrifice.

Then, he gets to work.

************************************************************************************

Skull Island is aptly named. This is because a great and terrible tyrant decided to carve its once glorious mountain into a skull. Now, time has both forgotten the isle’s true name and the name of the vainglorious fool who made the land what it is. But unlike the other unremembered greats who tried to etch their name into the annals of history, this one’s legacy remains in the baleful eyes of green-glowing crystals set in cavernous eye sockets to glare at the ocean beyond.

Through raging storms and hurricanes, twisting typhoons and tsunamis, thousands of Greater Water Elementals climb up through sea and sky, as though it were Poseidon reaching up to smite Zeus himself. The sky does not take this aggression unchallenged; it strikes back with vicious lightning and thunder. And through this chaos, through this battle of nature, the glittering brilliance of two emerald eyes pierce the gloom, acting as a guiding light to the few courageous or stupid enough to journey into the tempest.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

And here comes some now!

Forty miles out, and the Deadheart is violently rocked by the mild waves from the distant magical storm.

Because of course the storm is magical. Why wouldn’t it be? To those with eyes to see, whorls of mana spiral up from the island like a candy-cane swirled mountain in the midst of aggressive spasms.

Quasi rates it a six out of ten.

************************************************************************************

I lean on the rail of the ship, hand above my eyes to keep the biting rain from blocking my vision. Fun weather ahead! “So that's why you said we had to sell the ship,” I comment to my employee.

Jenah smiles, happy in her homecoming as she stares at the island fortress of the Necromancers’ Guild. “Stories say entire navies have tried t’ weather the storms ‘n monsters t’ reach the island only t’ sink.”

I nod. My eyes trace the elemental mana and the complicated tapestry of spellcraft constantly flowing from the skull. “It makes sense. Natural storms are difficult to dispel even when they’re not constantly reinforced by a ley line.”

Jena glances at me and raises an eyebrow. “Lay’in?”

“Yes, ley line.”

She rolls her eyes. “‘n what d’fuck ‘d that be?”

“What is it?” Quasi stares at her, aghast. “Aren't you a [Necromancer]? How do you not know about ley lines?”

“I was taught how ta be a [Necromancer], nota [Mage],” she huffs. “So what's a ley’ine?”

“Well… Huh. Okay.” I scratch my chin, “Hmmm–Actually! Do you know about the Mana-stream?”

“Ya mean how oceans of mana suposedly flow underground?”

“Yes, and it's not just a theory! Mana travels underground and throughout the planet. A ley line is a single river, or current of that mana which rises near the surface of the planet’s crust and drastically increases local mana concentration.”

I raise an arm and point at Skull Island. “There is a ley ine under the island powering the enchantments that are enhancing all these storms.” I lick my lips, “It's probably the most impressive ley line based defense I’ve seen yet.”

“There’re others?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah. Most of the old cities are built over a ley line and use it for protection,” I count them off on my fingers, “Jotunheim is a city made of enchanted ice that can heal itself. Svartalfheim is a city built within the corpse of a dungeon that hasn't lost its near indestructibility thanks to a ley line. Alfheim has a massive sentient tree protecting the city, and Muspelheim is a giant enchanted worm city that dives below and feeds on the ley line energy at the bottom of the desert.”

Jenah perks up. “So tha giant worm thing next t’ Luxor was a city?”

“You didn't know? I was pretty sure it was common knowledge already.”

She rolls her eyes, “I was stuck ‘n prison, n’ then I had t’ leave as soon as I was got out.”

“Oh… Well, yes. That's Muspelheim. Cleopatra reactivated her city after I fucked her.”

“So the legendary city is rea…” she looks over at me. “Did y’ just say ya fu–” Her words are interrupted by a flash of light, followed by a huge explosion. Jenah and I snap our heads around to stare in the direction of the noise.

The left side of the skull on Skull Island is cratered and smoking. A visible dome of energy struggles to heal the gaping, shattered hole on the left side of the island.

“Granddad!” Jenah cries. She leans away from the railing. “Put your mask on,” she orders. Without even waiting for me to reply, I feel the ship start to dive.

__________________________________________________________

Within a large tent, Ambrosia sits at one end of a table while a Lycan and Arachne stand behind her. She is relaxed and completely at ease, enjoying the struggling look of the man across her. She smiles, allowing a little of her sharp teeth to peek between her lips. “I don’t believe anything I’ve asked for is unreasonable. We did aid you in battle. Why should we be denied our fair share?”

Across the table, Brock does his best not to break composure. He fails, miserably, holding his head in his hands, lamenting his failures. Why did he agree to play diplomat? Yes, he has experience speaking with nobility thanks to his upbringing, but that was with [Nobles]. The woman before him is a [Lady], and a clearly experienced one.

He sighs, raises his head, and tries again. “We are not denying you anything, merely asking for your patience. Once our guild leader awakens to grant his approval, we can begin distribution of treasures.” Brock explains as respectfully and succinctly as he can. He desperately wants to avoid violence until Darius or Calidi recover from straining their mana reserves. The worst part is, Brock has a hunch [Lady] Ambrosia knows the two Named are incapable of fighting. If push comes to shove, Ambrosia has an advantage, and she knows it.

“I apologize, Mr. Brock, but time is of the essence.” Ambrosia bats her long eyelashes and smiles demurely. “My army is needed elsewhere. A group such as ours is not meant to wallow in place for what could be weeks on end. We are warriors, and cannot be expected to merely twiddle our thumbs and wait while the world keeps turning. We get restless, otherwise.” Ambrosia taps a single, manicured nail on the stone table. Every time she brings the finger down, it gouges the table as though it were cheese. “So, I’ll ask again: How much of the city is mine?”

Brock squeezes his eyes shut at the threats. It looks like stalling for a few days isn’t going to work, unless he can magically pull a distraction out of his ass. He sighs in defeat. He leans forward in his chair and opens his mouth, but pauses as the Lycan [Butler] turns to the tent’s entrance. His ears twitch as he stares at the flap. Not a second later, Turnock strolls through the flaps with Franky and Jessa in tow.

“Thank Odin you’re awake!” Brock exclaims as Franky walks in.

“Awake and fucking ripped!” Turnock bellows with a sweeping gesture across Franky’s bare chest. “Musta been a bloodline. Life ain’t fair. Anyway, I brought him like you wanted.”

Franky, still clad only in underpants, walks to Brock’s side of the negotiating table. “More like he dragged me here as soon as he saw me.” He looks at Brock. “So what's happening that needs me urgently?”

Brock extends his hand to his political opponents. “They want part of the city's spoils since they helped fight the golem.”

Franky looks at the other side of the table, specifically the unsmiling [Lady].

He raises an eyebrow.

“I see no reason why they shouldn't be rewarded for their help, especially since we’re going to need their army’s help to loot the city before Atlantis returns.”

Garn frowns. “You destroyed Atlantis,” the Lycan states. “I saw you obliterate everything with a single strike.”

Franky shakes his head.

“You saw me punch it, and then you saw it disappear,” Franky clarifies. “The mountains were easier to break.”

__________________________________________________________________

As the churning waves are ravaged by storms, the depths below are silent bar the shuddering creaks of wood stretching. Down here, where the dark is all consuming, the only break in the monotony is the slow, ponderous movements of treants readying to attack. The Deadheart passes them by, flowing through the aquatic forest with preternatural grace.

Quasi leans away from the rail and looks at the [Maids] as they walk on the deck as though there isn't even any water. It makes him wonder how there can exist skills which allow an underwater ship's crew to walk as though it is land, but not a skill that would allow them to breathe underwater.

“We’re almost there. Prepare to release the anchor!” Jenah yells at the wheel, completely ignoring the restriction that water would play with sound.

A minute passes, and their destination is made clear by an underground cavern leading directly into the center of Skull Island. When they enter, crystals at the sides of the cavern burst into light, illuminating their path and leading them to an underground port with several dozen ships. The Deadheart rises up in a mighty splash. The anchor is dropped and the ship is docked by undead [Sailors] that reel the ship in.

All of these actions are ignored by Quasi, as equal parts dread and anticipation fills him.

You have entered the dungeon, [Atlantis].